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The Decemberists: "Everything actually is awful, and it's not that funny"
Colin Meloy chats with Dork about getting out of old habits, branching out into literature and what’s next for The Decemberists.
Nov 7, 2018 • 3:30 PM
Lyrics
And under the boughs unbowed All clothed in a snowy shroud She had no heart, so hardened All under the boughs unbowed Each feather it fell from skin 'Til threadbare, as she grew thin How were my eyes so blinded? Each feather it fell from skin And I will hang my head, hang my head low And I will hang my head, hang my head low A gray sky, a bitter sting A rain cloud, a crane on wing All out beyond horizon A gray sky, a bitter sting And I will hang my head, hang my head low And I will hang my head, hang my head low And I will hang my head, hang my head low And I will hang my head, hang my head low And I will hang my head, hang my head low And I will hang my head, hang my head low, low, low
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